Members Only
by Blackstone.JM
Summary: Madeleine Stone and Sebastian Winters, lovers bounded by fate and history.
1. Chapter 1

Members Only.

Black letters against a white background; nothing else but those words and a name, scrawled in beautiful cursive on the back, _Freddy Reeds._

I hold the business card gingerly between my fingertips, flipping it back and forth, hoping for more information to appear magically on its little surface. But nothing appears out of thin air.

I wanted to crumble the damn thing and toss it out the car window but Sophie made it a point that I can't lose the card or I wouldn't be able to enter the club. I thought, so what, I was the one doing her the favor.

The ever so secretive club that Sophie has worked at all these months, a place Sophie held in such high regards only because it's the place where she make the month's rent home in two nights - easily, she had added.

So it came as a surprise to me when she told me, not asked, but told me to cover her shift this Friday night; somehow, she had managed to overbook herself. I asked her if it would be alright for some stranger to just show up, but she nodded, saying, "Oh yes, Mr. Reeds doesn't mind as long as I had another body to fill the space". Though I would've to sign a NDA anyways so the secret remains safe within their realm.

Just another body in Sophie's eyes, I had jested to her.

She waved me away, annoyed, "You know what I mean!", as though she was the one doing me the favor.

 _Oh do I ever, Sophie dearest._

So here I am, Friday night, pawing the card in my hand, waiting outside of a nondescript building in my car, ignoring the unforgivable heat of Florida summers. The plain white building sits amidst other plain white buildings downtown. The black moniker, Members Only, hides away in the corner, under the awning so that you only see it if you walk up to the building. Only if you care to venture this far outside of the downtown area, let alone get out of your car, into the "business" district. And I say, "business", note the quotations, because the sort of business conducted here were prostitutes turning their tricks.

And here I am sitting in my car, eyeing the streets for any street-walkers who may spot me as a mark, debating with myself on why I am still there, doing Sophie yet another favor that I know will bite me in the ass down the line. Good old Sophie with her harebrained schemes to get rich and famous quick and I, the fool who gets roped in every. Single. Time.

I eye the door, still debating when the heavens opened up and decided for me to leave the safety of my car. I grab my bag and rush headlong towards the awning, the rain already pouring steadily and somewhere off in the distant, the rumbling claps of thunder sounded. My shirt is soaked through and I brush away a few drops that landed on my face when lightning striked, illuminating a face that hovered in the corner by the front door.

"Can I help you?"

I let out a tiny yelp and bite down my lips to catch the rest in my mouth. A bald man, dressed in the usual doorman slash security uniform of black on black, steps out of the shadow. A white name tag, with Ralph etched into it, clings to his huge bodybuilder chest.

I leer at him, angrily startled by his sudden apparition. I hand him the card, all crumbled up and moist. He takes it, gingerly, between two fingers, his face a cool mask but I can sense the slight disgust from the flare of his nostrils.

"I'm supposed to ask for Mr. Reeds, Freddy Reeds," I say, jutting my chin out at him.

"Are you Madeleine Stone?" He looks me up and down.

"Yes." I straighten up, placing a hand upon my hip before I could stop myself, and stare him down; thankfully, he's a couple of inches shorter than me. My posturing doesn't faze him. He speaks softly into his headset and nods.

"Please come inside. Agatha's waiting for you." He opens the door and ushers me into the dark opening. I stand still, looking from him to the ominous mouth of the entrance, unsure whether to take the first steps forward or turn myself around and run.

Sensing this, he places his hand at the small of my back and guides -push is the better word- me in.

"Mr. Reeds doesn't like to be kept waiting." Do goons go to classes where they teach you to say these sort of things, I think as I look back at him, and he smiles, nodding, as though to answer my question, as he shuts the door in my face.

I step into the quiet foyer, mouth agape at the sudden change in surrounding. In stark contrast to the exterior, thick red velvet curtains covered every inch of wall in the room. Above the entrance, an ironwork hung, an M overlaid by an O with an arrow bisecting the letters in two- resembling a masked face.

I wonder over to a trio of high-backed leather chairs circling a low dark wood coffee. A stack of silver antique ashtrays sat in the middle of table but I didn't detect any smell of cigarette, let alone cigar smoke. The scent of something floral hovered in the air. Funeral home, this is what this room reminds me of. In the corner, a small window, with a muted yellow light glowing, appeared but before I can go investigate, the curtains part and I half-jump back, fearing a coffin upon an altar but it's only a set of double doors in front of which a petite blonde woman stands, gazing at me.

My heart thud against my ribs and again, I bite down my lips to stifle the scream.

"Miss Stone, right this way, please. Mr. Reeds' waiting in the Grand Room." She parts the curtain further and push the doors open, signaling for me to follow her in. My throat tightens and my legs hesitate to take that step towards her.

"Please," she says again, gesturing. She looks like a nice harmless lady so I nod and follow her through the double doors.

The Grand Room is, indeed, what its name suggest, grand in style and grand in size. Cavernous, even, how large it seems but actually, it only appears so because the walls are mirrors, reflecting every inch back onto itself. The mirrors reflect the blonde, cladded in black, and me, following in her wake. I glance at my reflections, afraid that my image might suddenly act of its own accord, in defiant of its master, a doppelganger waiting for its escape.

On one side of the large room, booth after booth of U-shaped couches lined the wall. Low leather tables sat in front of each section and each section separated by sheer black curtains, giving little privacy from one booth to the next.

On the dance floor, in the middle of the room, two silver poles stood an equal distance from one another. Above, a honeycomb of iron bars decorated the ceiling. Strippers, that's what it is, they have strippers with their poles as entertainment. There's no way in hell are they expecting me to do pole dancing. Is that how Sophie gets her money? And if that's all that is, why all the secrecy? There's strip clubs galore all around the city.

Opposite the wall of booths, a dark wood bar carved a serpentine line from one end of the end to the other. Shelves and shelves of bottles climbed the height of the wall, nearly to the ceiling. Cases of different shaped glasses bordered the shelves.

And there, at the end of the bar, sat the man I'm sure is Mr. Reeds. He, as well, dressed head to toes in all black, though, I'm positive, they are designer threads compared to what Ralph wore out there in the heat. This must be the uniform de rigueur or Mr. Reeds only hires people with the same taste in fashion. He hammers away on a small silver laptop, pounds down on the space bar like it deserved punishment for whatever deed the task challenged Mr. Reeds at, and the nostrils of his nose flared each time he has to delete a word - which is often. His slicked back curls threatened to fall out of place with each of his exaggerated movements but I doubt a single strand could with the amount of hair product he used. The blonde leads me right to him.

"Mr. Reeds, Miss Stone's here for you." He doesn't look away from the screen and just nods, whether to himself or to acknowledge her, I can't be sure. When he does face me, one word comes to mind: hawk. All of his features pulled into a shape point, from his widow's peak to his hooked nose, right down to the pointy chin. Even his thin lips began and ended with a point, a negative parabola upon his face. His saving grace are his green eyes, much too large and round, and too bright and unnatural a color.

Those very eyes are looking at me now, scrutinizing every inch of my body, up and down they travel. Instinctively, my hands shoot up to the front of my body, feeling all at once naked in his presence. Another word flashed into my mind: devil.

"Miss Stone. So Sophie sent you." He speaks without any inflection, sentences sounded like accusations instead of questions. He stands and circles me. I notice the blonde has left the room.

"I'm her replacement for tonight." I follow him in this weird little dance as he moves around me, not quite trusting him to leave my sight.

"Yes, yes. Perfect." He mutters under his breath as he finally stops and faces me. Our eyes meet and he smiles, large, white, and, what I imagined, sharp teeth appeared and disappeared just as quick.

"If you do well tonight, you'll come back for another night."

"No, I mean, no thank you. I'm only doing this one night as a favor for Sophie…" My words flood out in an attempt to assert what little control I have in this conversation. He squints at me and smiles again like I made a childish joke that he didn't find funny but he politely humors me.

"No. This favor you think you're doing Sophie is actually a favor she OWE me. She owe me a WARM BODY." His emphasis on the words, owe and warm body, made my stomach crawl, the hair on my neck stood up.

Goddamn it, Sophie, I thought.

"There must be a misunderstanding. I'm only supposed to…"

"Listen," he interrupts me, putting a hand up, "the misunderstanding's on your end and no problem of mine. She owe me and I'm really doing you, both, a favor. Don't speak. I'll pay you a thousand dollars for tonight and $500 for each night after. More, if you're well received and do your job well." My eyes widened at the amount of money he was offering. A thousand dollar for one night, a thousand dollar to do what exactly?

"You got the wrong person." I shake my head, suspicious of his intent.

"No, you're perfect for this. You got a great body, that ass alone, and the hair, like a glass of good wine. Makeup can get rid of that scowl you have on that pretty face," he puts up his hand again to quiet me, "This job's easy. I give you the clothes, someone'll do your hair and makeup and you either push drinks or sit with our clients for a couple of hours and do what they ask, within our boundaries, of course. That's it, easy money." He smiles that toothy smile again.

"But a thousand dollars to be a cocktail waitress, that's…"

"The money's for your discretion at my club," he interrupts again, "and you'll sign a NDA, of course, but the money's what ensure you keep in line and keep you coming back. Now stop shaking that pretty head of yours." He takes me by the arm, his touch cool and surprisingly rough.

"Agatha!" He yells and the blonde appears at my side as silently as she left, taking hold of my arm where Mr. Reeds's grip has vacated. "Sophie owes ME," he adds, pointing a ringed finger at his chest as Agatha leads me away.

A couple of hours later, after the Non-Disclosure Agreement's signed, measurements taken, three different stylists has brushed on, waxed on and attempted to tame my wild auburn hair into a tight braid.

"I'll be back with some food," Agatha tells me as she hands me a large cup of black coffee then leaves the room. She has kept me calm throughout the process, reassuring me that I'll get my money after all of this "process". "Process", ha!

I take my cell out of my bag and ring Sophie. The call goes straight to voicemail.

"Sophie, you're dead," I hiss into the phone. I end the call and repeat the message in a text and send that. I stare at my phone, daring her to respond. Throwing the phone back into my bag, I felt exhausted and slump down into my chair.

Sophie Fournier has a way of mixing my quiet and "boring!", she would exclaim, existence with her crazy lifestyle. I could think of several times she had fooled me into these stupid schemes of her. If only she'd asked, I'd have done anything for her, but her roundabout ways of tricking me had me doubting the durability our childhood frienship. Why me, I'd asked, out of the hordes of her friendships and followers. And from what I'd seen over the years, I was the only one who tolerated her persistent and somewhat obnoxious personality for long periods of time. She had her moments of sweetness where she could bring the world to her feet but do expect something, like your soul, for example, in exchange. Regardless, I saw her as someone like my younger sister and adored her as much as I do my brother, Henri-Laurent.

"Miss Stone, please eat, it'll be a long night." Agatha appears and places a steaming hot plate of baked salmon and mixed vegetables in front of me. I eat ravenously.

"There's no way in hell am I wearing that!" I back away from the black corset top and teddy hanging loosely from Agatha's grasp.

"Miss Stone, you will have to. This is the uniform for the girls." She inches closer to me.

"What kind of place is this?!" Exasperated, I throw up my arms in defeat.

An agonizing thirty minutes later, Agatha tightens the strings with her deft little fingers. I'm bare in black panties and the thigh high stockings she had carefully clipped into the teddy. I'd never imagined in all of my life that I'd wear anything that resembled this, let alone wear it at a place of employment, in a room full of strangers. Oh Sophie, you are so dead, I thought, as Agatha pulls the strings tighter and tighter. The only blessing came when Agatha hands me a pair of black ballerina flats. There wasn't a chance in hell that I'd wear heels all night long.

I watch Agatha in the mirror as she finished with the corset, smoothing the laces down and clasping the last hook, the strings so tight, every breath is a struggle for me. She is a true beauty, petite and doll-like, a gothic one in all that black, especially against her pale skin, which nearly shimmered. Her blonde hair cut into a sharp bob that frame her heart-shaped face and she didn't wear any makeup besides black mascara, which brightened her pale blue eyes, and red lipstick on her bow lips. She looked young, perhaps a few years older than me, but the lines at the corner of her eyes put her in her late 30s, early 40s, perhaps. She catches me staring at her and her blue eyes shine as she smiles, embodying the very doll I thought she is.

"Not too tight? How does it feel?"

"Like a straight jacket but I can breathe. Barely." She smiles again and spins me around so she could look at me fully.

"You look beautiful, Miss clients are in for a treat." She spins me around again to face the mirror.

Feeling the thick layer of makeup on my face, I gaze into the mirror and the person looking back is someone else entirely, someone I didn't realized.

I am the proverbial deer caught in headlights, grey eyes opened a bit too wide, charcoal rimmed and done in what one stylist exclaimed, "smokey eyes are so in!". The mascara feels heavy, drooping my eyelids, a sophorific look on my face. My lips are sticky from the glob of lip gloss smeared across. My head ached from the tightness of the french braid the three stylists had wrestled my unkempt hair into. All the black gave my skin a pallor, Morticia Addams-esque but she made it look sexy and I looked...undead. The corset pinched my barely there breasts into the illusion of cleavage. I was grateful the lace panties covered my whole behind; echoes of high school taunts rung in my ears. I close my eyes, unsure of the person I see, and inhale as deeply as I could without exploding.

"You are breathtaking, Miss Stone, a goddess." Possibly sensing my insecurities, Agatha presses my hand and assures me that my awkwardness is nowhere near the surface as I think.

"Thank you, Agatha." As she hands me a name tag and an envelope, the door to the dressing room opens and in floods the other girls working tonight. All of them dressed in the same uniform; though I must admit, they looked more filled in and infinitely better than I did. They were of all different skin tones, expertly done up in makeup of different shades and hues. Their chatter filled the room as I tried to blend in with the furniture.

Left to myself, I open the envelope Agatha had handed me and see a check for a grand made out to Madeleine Stone. I quickly stuff it deep in my bag and examine my name tag; Alice, the black letters announced. How apt for being shoved down the rabbit hole.

The bass from the music in the Grand Room pulses and drops, dancing over my ribs like a xylophone. I hold a tray of champagne flutes they had given me, grasping the edges with both hands so that I didn't drop the whole damn thing, something very likely happen in my care. The other girls balanced their trays skillfully with one hand as they lined up to make our entrance into the Grand Room. Since I'm new, I'm last in line and the moment the door opens, the music pulsates through, goosebumps decorating my skin. The line of girls files out steadily and I half skip to catch up with them, cluthing my tray.

The Grand Room is dark, smokey, red strobe lights bouncing off the mirrors, casting a hazy red fog over every surface. All of the booths occupied and the bar is packed with bodies, one on top of the other just for a drink. The dance floor is, with surprise, empty as we parade around the perimeter. I wondered why I would need to carry a tray of drinks if people could get theirs from the bar when the girl from the front of the line grasps my arm as she had finished the circuit around the dance floor. The other girls are already in their positions, backs to the dance floor, facing the people in the booths, drink trays at their left like soldiers at attention. I assume the same stance.

The music grows louder, the bass pounding so hard my bones rattled with the beat. _What a wicked game you play…_ the words of a favorite song filled the air. All at once everyone turned their attention to us. To my astonishment, they were all wearing masks that covered everything but their lips and chin; some even had their hair covered with veils. My skin crawled as I feel their eyes traveling up and down my body. Slowly, one by one, a person from each booth stands and walks up to the girls, us. They look at each of us, touching our hair and carassing our faces. The last booth, nearest to where we had entered, sat only one occupant and he stayed where he is, staring right at me. A chill moved through me, my fingertips tingle and I hear the rushing sound of blood in my ears.

Holding my focus, he stands and moves towards me. I couldn't breath, paralyzed by the force of his stare. Only the dull ache from my bottom lips brings my attention to the fact that I was biting down, hard, hard enough to draw blood. I could see the delicate lacing of his black mask and his light-colored hair, tinted red, as he moved closer and closer. He is three steps away from me when I feel a hand pull the drink tray free from my grasp. I look up into a golden mask with silver filigree etched into the fabric. Dark eyes bore down on me and a hand gripped around my wrist. I see Agatha's red tinted bob move towards me to take the tray out of Golden Mask's hand. I pull my arm back from the stranger's touch but his fingers only tighten against my struggle.

"This is our special guest. He's chosen you. Do as you're told and if you feel in danger, raise two fingers and one of us will come over to you." Agatha whispers into my ear, her strong perfume burning my nose. What the hell does she mean, he's chosen me? And to do what I'm told, no way in hell. I look to Black Mask as he graciously bow, a strand of pale hair falls in front of his face, and he smiles at Golden Mask. My stomach plummets with the realization that I was on display and handpicked by strangers to be their plaything for the night. My mind raced in a desperate attempt to escape but my body is immobilized by fear. Almost all the other girls are at their chosen tables, handing out flutes to their guests.

Black Mask clasps my hand with his scorching hot one and places a light kiss on my knuckles. The hairs at the back of my neck stand from the shock of his touch. The heat rise on my face as I'm aware again of how scantily-cladded my body is under his gaze.

A rough tug of my arm brings me back to my current dilemma: Golden Mask is the one dragging me back to his booth. Black Mask walks over to the bar with Agatha in his wake, his eyes still wondered over to me. Agatha's desperate for the attention that he's refusing her; it seemed like a one-sided argument that Agatha's losing.

Before I can react, I'm pushed unto the couch, my shin hitting the edge of the leather table, shaking the tray of flutes perilously. _Asshole!_ I grasp my shin, pissed, rubbing the pain away. Golden Mask grabs my name tag, pulling my corset, nearly exposing my breasts. He smirks. I jerk away from him and sink back into the couch, as far away from him as possible.

"Alice, huh? Have a drink, Alice." He shoves a flute into my hand, his face too close, hot breath smelling of sour whiskey. I search for Agatha in the crowd by the bar but she has disappear and so has Black Mask.

The music has changed into something more fast paced, the bass still thundering away. The atmosphere has shifted, amp up. The attention of the crowd has turned to the dance floor again. One of the girls is led by a masked figure to the open space. From what I assume is a he, moves the girl in front of one of the silver poles and takes out a pair of silver handcuff. He restrains her hands behind her back around the pole. As he's doing so, he kisses her neck, moving down to the tops of her breasts. In one quick jerk, he rips her panties off and drops them to the floor. He grabs her thighs and hoists her up, sliding her up the pole, until her legs are over his shoulders. To my horror, he then proceeds to go down on her. Her hands grip tight to the pole, head bent in ecstacy, body sagging against the pole.

When he finishes, he lowers her down, her legs wrapped around his body, and I realize, with a flush of heat moving through my body, that they were going to fuck right then and there with everyone watching. And these people watched as though this was nothing to them, just another Friday night at the movies. Another couple walked up to the other pole and followed suit. Then another and another, collapsing to the ground in piles. Bile rises in my throat as the thought that I would soon be next and there was nothing I could do about that comes to mind. I needed to get the hell of there.

Golden Mask grabs my hand and tilts the glass of champagne into my mouth. The bubbly alcohol burns down my throat and I cough when some went down the wrong pipe. The rest had spilled all over my chest as I shove his hand away. The flute falls to the ground and breaks. He lunges on top of me and licks the cold liquid from my neck, moving closer to my mouth. I push his face away and sink my teeth into his shoulder as I bring my knee up to his crotch, hard. I knew I made contact when he screams into my ear and rolls off and unto the leather table, cupping his manhood and sending the tray of champagne crashing to the flood.

With all the commotion, I was sure everyone would be looking at us but not a single face turned our way. Their attention captivated by the entertainment on the dance floor as more and more bodies gathered there. I couldn't bring myself to look for long. I half jog towards the exit and as I pass Black Mask's table, I chance a look but the booth is empty. My stomach sank at the thought that he might possibly be one of the bodies writhering upon the dance floor with someone else at that moment. I hurry out of the door, not daring a look back or another thought.

In the dressing room, I grab my bag, checking for the envelope inside. The coast is, as how they say it, clear as I make my way down the long hallway and out into the foyer, where it is empty as well. My escape is in sight.

As I push on the crash bar, someone grabs my bag and yank me back. I bite down on my lip again. I see blonde hair out of the corner of my eye, panic coursing through me, and I reach back, my fist a tight ball. But to my astonishment, I come face to face with Black Mask. My hand falls to my side and I am yet again paralyzed by his gaze.

His eyes, a deep blue flecked with bright green, like the waters of some faraway, lost island where I could almost feel the tides of that ocean washing over me, pulling me into the riptide. His white blond hair shocks against the black mask, his skin a shade darker with blue veins running beneath, and I only become aware that he's speaking when I notice his blood-red lips moving, words coming back to me like echoes in a tunnel.

"Ralph's out there. I can distract him if you hide here." He parts the curtain for me to sneak behind but it takes me a moment to fully understand. I look up at him as the curtain slides into place, half wondering why I'm trusting him and why he'd even help me. I listen as the door opens and he calls out to Ralph. A few moments later, Ralph's inside. My pulse races and the bitter saliva in my mouth dries up.

"Yes sir?"

"Ralph, my coat please, and call my driver around, I'm done for tonight." His voice, sweet and thick like caramel, but not at all buttery for his tone demanded much. I hear Ralph's heavy steps moved quickly away.

His hand grabs me, scorching at the touch, and pulls me out of my hiding place and shoves me out of the door.

"Go, Alice." That same tone commanded me but I stand there, blinking at him, confused by why he called me Alice. But before I could correct him, Ralph appears from around the corner and spots me.

As I turned to run, Black Mask wraps my braid around his hand and pulls me back, pain needling my scalp. That sharp pain and the impact of his feverish lips pressed hard against my bruised ones set something off in me, an awakening deep within that I can feel suddenly stirring. He releases me, electric blue eyes burning white like lightning into mine. A thin line of blood drips from the corner of his lips down to his chin. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding and felt my bottom lip throbbing from the heat.

Agatha has appeared and she's steps behind Ralph, yelling for him to get me.

"GO!" Black Mask ordered and with that, my body takes flight, sending me out into the cold rain. The door slams shut behind and I had but a few moments to lift my face up to the welcoming shower and tasted the copper taste of blood in my mouth, lips burning from his kiss. The stickiness of the champagne washed away but the rain couldn't cool the lust I feel radiating through my limbs; something has roused.

Hearing the commotion behind the door, I sprint to my car, thanking the beautiful stranger for saving me, the beautiful stranger whom I may never see again.


	2. Chapter 2

Sophie's car is nowhere to be seen when I pull into the driveway. Not a single light is on in the other three townhouses that shared our dead-end street. Thank goodness none of the neighbors could see me now in this ridiculous outfit as I creep to our front door, clutching my soaked bag; I'd never hear the end of it if any of them so happen to peek out of their windows at this moment.

I couldn't wait to sink into a hot bath and forget about this night. Maybe I'll save the water to drown dear Sophie in when she gets home; it'd be a pleasant death for all she had put me through. I relish the thought as I slip into the warmth of my sanctuary.

Sophie has left the living a mess, again; piles of clothes scattered all over the floor, her way of getting ready for whatever night she'd planned. I slide the flats off and edge past the war zone to my bedroom down the dark hallway.

The scent of honey and lemon welcome me home. I drop the wet bag by my desk and head to the bathroom to start the water for my much-needed bath. I must figure out the task of taking off this corset without the extra pair of hands. I unclasp the ripped stockings from the teddy, pulling them off, and toss them into the wastebasket. I undid the bottom bow that Agatha had tied the strings into, then the top one. Once I loosen the strings enough, much to the relief of my poor ribs, I rotate the coarse shell around and let out more for the damn thing to fall to my feet.

I look at the lace panties and debate whether I should keep them. I took them off and lay them on the countertop. The bathtub is halfway full when I turn off the water and drop in a bath bomb; the water fizzles and sends out kaleidoscopic ripples of bubbles.

I wipe the steam from the mirror and look at myself. The mascara and eyeliner left watery black streaks down my face and the lip gloss, a distant memory due to me constantly chewing on my lip on the drive home; the fear that I'd be followed made me glanced in my rearview mirror more often than the road in front of me. I squirt coconut oil into a cotton pad and rub my skin a bright pink to remove the rest of the makeup.

Once satisfied, I step into the bathtub. The water is on the side of a bit too hot but it's heavenly and I need it to cleanse the night away. I immerse myself to the water's embrace and close my eyes as I slip under. Water so scorching, the memory of his burning touch materializes in my thoughts. I break the surface and rest my head on the edge of the tub, thoughts drifting back to Black Mask. I touch my lips and remember how fervent his mouth felt on mine. My scalp aches from how hard he had pulled my hair.

Would I ever see him again? What are the chances? Pretty high if I return to Members Only but there's no chance in hell that would I ever step back into that place voluntarily. He and I are from two different worlds; he goes to places like that for entertainment, he has a driver so obviously he has money, the girls there would be his ideal.

The front door slams shut, announcing Sophie's arrival home. I don't have the energy in me to deal with her tonight. I sink back into the water and enjoy what I could of my last moments alone before she'd barge in, uninvited. The door to my bedroom opens and I hear her hesitating outside the bathroom door. She knew it had to be bad if I was in the bath and not running the shower.

"Madie? Promise you're not mad." She speaks through the closed door.

"Sophie, please, not tonight."

"Are you mad?" She opens the door at last and peers in.

"Sophie, please." I close my eyes and count to ten.

"Was it that bad? You made it home- awfully early- and in one piece. Mr. Reeds and Agatha are cool, right? And the thousand dollar…" I open my eyes at the words and she stops. I stare at the ceiling as she slinks in and sits on the toilet. "A thousand dollars goes a long way," she continues.

"I'm so upset with you and all I want is to be left alone."

"That place is a little weird, don't get me wrong." She goes on, ignoring my request.

"A little weird doesn't cover how fucked that place is. I don't even know which is worse; the people having sex on the dance floor or the people watching as though it was nothing." I glare at her. "No amount of money could make me stay another moment."

She looks down at her neon pink toenails, perched on the edge of the toilet cover, and peels off a bit of chipped polish.

"You knew what kind of place that was and you sent me there, Sophie, you knew."

No answer. My stomach knots in anger.

"Damn it, Sophie, don't ask me for any more favors. Get out."

"A grand is a grand. You don't have to be such a judgemental prude." She responds quietly.

I stand up, shaking in anger, not caring that I'm naked. The cold air sends goosebumps, like wildfire, down my skin. I walk out to my bag and take out the envelope. She can have the money if that's all she cares about. The envelope is soaked through and the check inside worthless, a smeared mess of black ink and soggy paper. I choke out a laugh. I return to the bathroom and throw the check at her.

"Ça, tu prends. Take it and get out." Her eyes brim with tears, knowing she has made me truly mad if I spoke in French, let alone, stood nude, unabashed, in front of her. I close the door behind her and lean on it, the exhaustion weakens me. The event of today has left my body aching in more than one way and I need my bed; if only Black Mask could join me, a fleeting thought.

I climb back into the cooling water and submerge, evoking the cool water of the ocean.

The newspaper is a game of tic-tac-toe, red X's and O's mapped the classified ads, and I'm not winning. My fingers cramp from repeatedly typing out the details of my education, work experiences, and life accomplishments-not that there's much. I stretch out and crack my back over the top of the wood chair. The aroma of coffee fills my lungs and my mouth waters at the thought of getting another French press but my system couldn't take another dose of caffeine. I was getting the shakes and being a bit paranoid.

In the last hour, a brown-haired man has glanced in my direction nearly 10 times. I didn't notice when he had come in but the constant rustling of his newspaper brought my attention to him. He sat a few tables down; with a cup of coffee and pencil in hand, he looked to be doing the crossword. But every so often, he looked away from the newspaper and subtly watched me. The eerie feeling of being observed made it hard for me to concentrate on my work at hand. I couldn't shake the feeling and I was almost sure he was watching me when I faked a yawn and he, a few seconds later, yawned as well. This couldn't be pure coincident. A thought flash through my mind: Mr. Reeds has sent someone after me. But for what? I never cashed the check and I definitely haven't talked to anyone about what happened that night, not even Sophie, whom I've barely spoken to since.

I pack my laptop into my bag and shuffle the newspaper and other documents into a folder that I shove in after. As I walk the French press and mug over to the waste counter, I peek at his newspaper, half of the crossword filled in. Maybe I am being a little paranoid. But I could feel his eyes follow me as I make my way through the café and out the front door. I glance at him though the windows and etch his face into memory. Our eyes make contact, his face unreadable but his eye bore into mine. He gets up and walks quickly towards the exit, leaving the newspaper and coffee cup behind. I know for sure now as I jog across the street to my Forester. Resisting the urge to look behind me, I unlock the door, get in and slam it shut and at once, lock it again. He is nowhere in sight. Me, paranoid?

Sophie's car is home when I pull down our street, a surprisingly welcome sight. Thomas and Eve are in the front yard, both sporting gloves and knee pads as they work on their little garden. I wave and shout a quick hi to them as I enter the house.

Sophie has kept up the cleaning since our argument from that night. The days following, I was still fuming, barely glancing her way as I left for the library or café to work on my portfolio and send out resumes. By the end of the week, she's tidied up the entire place. I began to say goodbye the last couple of days before I left.

It has been almost two weeks since the incident at the club and Black Mask. He lingered in my mind but the chances are slim to none of us ever meeting again since I didn't dare get within a ten-mile radius of Members Only. I tried to forget him but the phantom kiss persisted; the memory so intense that once in a while, my lips burned hot and I had to bite down to rid of the sensation.

One night, I dreamt of him. He emerged from the ocean, his eyes reflecting the calm water, the colors identical, as though they were poured into him. As he walked towards the shore, the water gleamed down his body until I realized he was nude. I woke with a start, my sheets tangled around my legs and my heart pounded where I didn't think possible.

Sophie's room is quiet as I walk past to mine. She must be napping from her late night out. I drop my bag by the desk and flung myself unto my bed. I savor the coziness of my pillows and my limbs release the paranoid tension. Am I being paranoid? Was I being followed? And why? There were no reasons for Mr. Reeds to keep pursuing me.

The vibrations in my back pocket nearly catapult me off the bed. My cell buzzes, on silent.

Mama, the screen flashes with the most unflattering picture of my mother I took last Halloween, a picture she wished I would erase into oblivion.

"Allo, mama!"

My father responds instead, "Allo petite amour, how are you?"

"Papa! I'm well, a bit exhausted from the job search," I add, "How are you and mama? And Henri?"

"Oh, we're fine. Just a little curious about whether you are coming home for the summer or not. Preferably yes."

Home sounds good right now, a possible escape.

"I don't know yet, papa, especially with the job search. The deferment on the school loan is almost up."

"You know we can always help."

"Yes, but I can do it on my own."

"I know, mon petite, but the help's here, always."

"I know. Merci, Papa."

In the background, I hear my brother's rumbling voice and the sound of the phone being wrestled from my father.

"You brat! I'm coming soon, did he tell you that?" Henri-Laurent's voice makes my throat tighten and all at once, I feel homesick.

"No, you giant fart. When is this visit? I have to warn the villagers." He laughs, making the distance between us seem smaller.

I miss home. While St. Pete is beautiful and bustling, I missed New Orleans and its familiarity. Even after four years here, I still feel like a stranger.

"I got a job," he says joyiously, but hesitantly adds, "in London."

"In London?!" I sit up in my bed. My giant of a brother is moving to London. His backwood manners would make him stick out like a bent nail amongst the cosmopolitans.

"I'll be working for a studio, the Studio." He pauses, expectantly. There's only one studio Henri has dreamt of working for since he became infautated with film.

"No? You got Canal+?! Henri, congrats!"

"I'm overjoyed, Mads."

"You worked so hard for it, of course. But you'll be so far away…"  
"You know you can visit me any time. I'll have a room just for you."

"Oh, you say that now until you find some girl. You brute, I'm so happy for you." Tears brim up in my eyes.

"Now YOU need to find a job or the Duo will drag back to the swamp."

"That doesn't sound half bad right now." I pause, contemplating whether I should tell him about the club or not. He senses my hesitation.

"Is it Sophie again? Tell me."

"No. Well, a bit but…" And I tell him everything that happened that night at Members Only; Mr. Reeds, Black Mask, and today, about possibly being followed, but I left out the near rape by Golden Mask. He listens, grunting his responses every so often.

"Kid, I'm coming down soon and not a finger, not one will be laid on you." The threat covers both Mr. Reeds and Black Mask. My overprotective brother.

"Let me know when, would you, so I can prepare."

"I'm gonna give Sophie an earful." I could picture her face now as I hear the sternness of his words. Sophie's very much in love with Henri and the thought of him mad at her would devastate her entirely.

"No, Henri, you know how she is. You'll make her cry and that'll be more trouble than it's worth." He and I chuckle, possibly recalling the same memories of Sophie and her alligator tears.

"Mads, you be good. I'll see you soon." He pauses and adds, "Mama wants to speak to you." The tone of his voice let me know that my mother's the one who's going to give me an earful.

"Madeleine, not a word. We expect you home if you don't find work there. No arguments. Papa and I can help with the loans. That's of no concern."

"Mama…" I roll my eyes as she interrupts.

"Darling, Henri-Laurent's leaving us. I can't stand not having both of my children home. And your Papa! He's driving me loony." I could picture her, in the kitchen, pacing and throwing her hands up in desperation, gesturing out her every emotion, which were many; those poor hands of hers.

"Mama, don't worry about my loans. I'll find a job here. And I will try," the emphasis on the word try, "to come home, after Henri's visit."

My brother's name sets her off again. She sniffles into the phone and then blows her nose loudly into the earpiece.

"Mon enfants!" My mother, the drama queen; even Sophie couldn't rival her. But they, in their ways, mean well.

"Mama, I have to go. Give Papa and Henri my kisses. I love you."

"Ok darling, come home soon, understand. I love you, too." When she hangs up, I lie back, hot tears rolling down my cheeks.

A knock at my door wakes me.

"Can I come in?" Sophie's voice floats through the quiet twilight.

"Yes." She stands by my opened door, wary of coming closer, wary of my reaction.

"I know I haven't been forthcoming with you. And I'm truly sorry. I am! And I've come with an offering as an apology." I eye her suspiciously.

"Sophie, I'm not falling for another trick of yours."

"Not a trick, I swear," she exclaims and holds up two fingers, our childhood salute of honesty, "A client came to me about a job opening. A design position at Winters Industries. Have you heard of them?"

I shake my head. "I didn't see anything in the ads or online."

"Well they said that it's an internal position but they'll open it up to you since they know me." She steps closer. This seems too good to be true. And why the hell do Sophie have clients?

"Sophie, if this is another trick, I don't think our friendship can survive it."

"I swear, Madie, please believe me."

"How did they job opening even come up?" She looks down, her fingers wringing themselves. "How did he know?"  
"I got drunk. I mentioned what happened and we talked about you briefly."

"Oh you know how I hate when you talk about me. Especially to strangers."  
"I know but this is good. This happened for a reason. I got you an interview, a real one." She sits on my bed.

"You're serious?"  
"I'm serious." The two fingers shoot up again.

"When? Where?" She giggles and jumps on me, tightly hugging me.

"You're not mad anymore?"

"I'm not mad. But really, if this is…"  
"It's not! Trust me, jeez." She kisses me on the cheek.

Trust her, she says. That's asking for a lot. But her happiness is infectious and I'm excited about the job prospect; a real interview. I decide to share my news.

"Henri's coming down to visit." She holds me at arm's length.

"He is? When?"

"Soon." She yelps with elation and nearly bursts my eardrums in the process.

"I told him what happened. At the club." She stills, eyes wide, and pales.  
"NO!"

"Oh yes." I tell her, grinning. Her wide eyes suddenly brims with tears.

"Madie, why?" She erupts into huge sobs and grasps to me. I hold her, still smiling, and revel in the little act of revenge. Now we are even.

Winters Industries National is located by the St. Petersburg International Airport, off of SR 668. The three large warehouses stand, facing the Old Tampa Bay, three massive gray structures that resembled the Great Pyramids of Giza. Attached to the warehouse closest to the airport is a three-story brick building that served as the main offices where my interview will be held.

I park in the lot directly in front of the building and sit, my nerves a bundle of electricity. I attempt to steady myself but it's no use; in my guts, I know this is it, my future depends on landing this position or I'm sent packing to the Ol' Bayou. Now or never, they say.

I step on the slick blacktop, my bag over one shoulder, Sophie's 5-inch pumps teetering on the gravel. Why did I ever think letting Sophie dress me was a good idea? The white button-up shirt and tight pencil skirt is professional and minimalist, to my taste, but the heels and the makeup, all Sophie; in other words, she made me look like a professional escort, not a professional. The heels are especially hard to walk in with the skirt being so tight at the knees. My hair, Sophie tussel into a tight bun at the back of my head, using a dozen or so bobby pins to hold it into place. The tightness of the bun gives me a flash of Black Mask's drowning blue eyes; it calmed me somewhat and my thoughts traveled to other places besides my interview.

The reception area is quiet and sparely decorated. Off to one side, a long black sofa and a matching love-seat faced a low coffee table. The gray walls are covered with unframed abstract artworks, canvas stretched over wood panels; they must be originals. The small room opened into two long hallways on either side. Across the front door, a dark wood reception desk accommodates three brunettes, Bluetooth earpieces blinking blue, who answered in hushed voices as they clicked away on hidden keyboards.

I walk up to the middle one and smiles. She looks up and smiles back.

"Yes, Mr. Winters, right away." She taps the earpiece and it stops blinking. "Sorry about that. How may I assist you?"

"Madeleine Stone, I have an interview with Wil Caldwell."

"Oh yes, you're the 2pm. Right this way please." She stands, covered head to toe in white. I glance at the other two and they, too, are dressed in white attires. I hope that's not part of my uniform because drafting in black ink, especially being me, doesn't fare well with white clothes.

She leads me down the right hallway then takes a sharp left down another hallway. I'm taken aback by the large windows that looked into a courtyard, enclosed on all sides, its entrance hidden. A large palm take up the middle of the square where, underneath the tree, sits a table and chair. Foliage surrounds the tree and fills out the rest of the space. It's a tropical jungle trapped inside of an office building. The receptionist stops when she realized that I've halted, gawking at this astounding sight.

"This is the Garden, though as you can see, it's not exactly a garden, much too tropical, but no one wanted to call it the Jungle. I guess that sounded too primal. Mr. Winters had originally installed this as a sort of Bio-dome for testing air quality, but has since used it as his own retreat. Once you start working here, you'll see him in there from time to time." She smiles and continues along. I follow, quite curious about this peculiar Mr. Winters. I picture him as an old man who sports a pince-nez and ascot as he works in the Garden, who perhaps have tea at noon and gets into all sorts of eccentric hobbies. But with the minimalist decor and contemporary artwork I've seen in the lobby, he must be a modern man.

Three offices sat towards the back of the building, past a set of stairwells. The receptionist knocks on the first door.

"Come in." A voice calls out. She opens the door and ushers me in.

"Thank you." And then she's gone.

At the desk sits Wil Caldwell. Tight ringlets of dirty blonde hair frames her round face. The cornflower blue eyes light up as she stands and extends her hand towards me. She's dressed in a simple black polo and dark grey flannel slacks.

"Wil Caldwell. Please have a seat." She points to a set of light gray armchairs in front of her desk. I sit in the one closest to me. Her deep and husky voice doesn't match her innocent-looking face; Lauren Bacall's voice out of Shirley Temple's face. "Sophie has told me a great deal about you."

Briefly, Sophie had said; I should've known better.

"I hope all good things. Though, I want to say first and foremost, thank you for the interview. I appreciate you taking the time on someone you don't know, let alone, a recent graduate." She smiles politely, a hint of dimples appear and disappear just as quick.

"It's no problem. Sophie has shown me a few of your pieces; I wouldn't have interviewed you on her word alone. They're impressive, very fluid, natural. It's in tune to the style we strive for here." My eyes widen; Sophie must've gone through my things but she has gone all out on securing me this. I have to remember to tell Henri to go easy on her.

"Gosh, thank you. I…" The metallic sound of a camera lens zooming in and out catches my attention. A small camera dangles from the corner above her desk, its lens focused on us. Wil looks from me to the machine above her.

"Security reasons. May I see the rest of your portfolio?"

I nod, "Of course," open my bag, and reach inside for my leather portfolio. I hand it to her and our fingers brush slightly but she gives no notice. "There's a flash drive in there with the digital works."

"This is great stuff for a recent graduate." She leafs through the sleeves. "Do you usually work by hand, with the grid system?"

"Thanks. It's the only way I know how. I mean, I know how to use the programs, of course, but this is more natural to me, to work by hand."

"I see. Mr. Winters will find that fascinating."

"Is Mr. Winters Sophie's client?" I blurt out before I realized that's too personal a question to ask.

"No. Actually, I am." My eyes widen and I bite down my lip. She laughs at my response.

"I'm sorry."

"No, it's perfectly alright. Well, I'm impressed with your style and I'm sure, Mr. Winters will be as well with the quality. Can you start Monday? We'll have you in tomorrow to fill out the rest of the paperwork and talk salary. Then, you'll be set up with a desk. What do you think?" I frown at her, not quite believing what I just heard.

"Are you sure?" She laughs her throaty laugh.

"Positive. You're hired."

"Thank you, thank you." She stands and walks around to shake my hand. Happiness bubbles up inside me, uncontrollably, like a shaken bottle of champagne, ready to pop. I grab her in a hug, surprising us both. I pull away, a blush creeping across my face. "Sorry. I'm just so happy."

"It's a pleasant surprise. Tell Cynthia, the one who led you here, to set a time for tomorrow. I'll see you then." She shakes me hand as I walk, nearly skip, out of her office.

I rush home to celebrate with Sophie. She's scrawled out on the couch, napping as usual. I leap on her and cover her face with kisses.

"You pain in my ass, I got the job!" In her sleepy haze, she blinks up at me, her brows burrowed, annoyed that I woke her, the news not registering yet. Then she whoops and hugs me tight.

"I told you!"

"I forgive you completely. And so will Henri." She lights up, laughing and shouting.

"We're going out tonight and drinking til we see only stars."

"Wil is your client..." I raise my eyebrow, smiling, and she blushes, a rare feat, since Sophie doesn't embarass easily.

"I didn't want to tell you."

"Sophie, dearest, don't even think about taking me to Members Only tonight!" I kiss her on the mouth, changing the subject, for this was something Sophie didn't have to explain to me. We roll on the floor, clutching each other, laughing, like we did so often in childhood.

The rest of the week passed in a whirlwind. I filled out a mountain of paperwork, signed, crossed, and dotted the lines, and in exchange, I received a cubicle on the third floor of the design department. Overlooking the bay, my L-shaped cubicle with an opening for my drafting table sits and faces the large window. My supplies, still clear-wrapped, laid out on the desk, next to the shelves of files and manuals. The most intimidating object is the huge iMac, its 27-inch screen glared at me. I was more than well equipped for my entry-level position. No pressure at all…

On Monday, Wil visits me at my desk to make sure I'm settled in and introduces me to Eric Levallan, my project director. Blond and brown eyed, Eric looks like a Boy Scout, an all American guy better suited for the football field then here in this office. He's all smiles as he clasps my hands in his two large calloused ones.

"I've seen your work. They're unique, for lack of a better word. I look forward to working with you, Miss Stone."

"Thank you. And I, you." I smile awkwardly, a bit flustered, as Wil and Eric look at me as though they were holding back chuckles.

"If you have any questions, come by, I'm just over there." He points to a glass office by the opening of the stairwell.

"I'll leave you guys to it then." Wil shakes my hand and then takes her exit down the stairs.

Eric gives me a quick tour of the floor. There's a total of seven designers, myself included. Though, I'm the only one with the drafting table; all the others worked strictly on their iMacs. I bring that fact up with Eric.

"Yes, we set up your desk specifically this way. Mr. Winters thought you'd like to work by hand, like you prefer."

"He's very generous. When can I thank him personally? Is his office here somewhere or do I need to lurk around the Garden?" Eric laughs.

"No need to lurk. You will meet him soon. We have a project meeting at the end of the week and quarterly meetings with him and Wil to go over our existing projects or introduce new ones."

Then Eric introduces me to the other six designers, all middle-aged men with families, mortgages, the works.

"Don't be nervous. They're quite tamed. And a bit outdated," he chuckles, "I guess me, included. You'll be fresh meat." He laughs heartily at his joke and adds, "I'm kidding. I'm sure you'll bring a whole new perspective to our work here at WIN."

"WIN?"

"It's the abbreviation of Winters Industries National but we quip that Sebastian, Mr. Winters, chose the moniker because he likes to win at life. I mean who doesn't. And his hubris isn't misplaced, he's done well for his age."

Eric leads me back to my cubicle, hands me a stack of files before I could ask any other questions about Mr. Winters, tells me good luck, and returns to his office. My mind, kindling with this new information about Mr. Winters, endeavors to the first task of my new job. I open the top file and dive in.

That Wednesday night, there's a knock at the door followed by an ear-piercing scream from Sophie and I fear the worst: Mr. Reeds has paid us a visit. I run out to the living room to see not Mr. Reeds with his cronies but Sophie wrapped like a vine around Henri who, a duffel bag in each hand, has a big grin spreaded across his face. I jump unto Sophie, overpowering my giant of a brother, and we fall to the floor in a big pile, howling with delight.

After the gleeful reunion, as Sophie busied herself in the kitchen with dinner, belting out a Amy Winehouse song, I lead Henri to my room to drop off his bags and have our private moment together.

"I got a job," I tell him, "Well, Sophie got me the interview that landed me the job."

"Oh. Congrats, kid!" He sits down on my bed and looks at me, beaming.

"Be sweet to her, she's made it up to me. More than make it up, actually. I feel like I owe her one." I sit next to him and wrap my fingers around his meaty ones.

"I will. So where's it at?"

"Winters Industries National. They're an architect firm who specializes in sustainable designs. Those self-sustained farms in Oregon, they designed the irrigation system. Green housing developments all over. They have a lot of eco-friendly patents."

"It sounds like your type of place. How the hell did Sophie get the interview?"

"That's a long story itself for another time." He rolls his eyes at me and we both shake our heads at Sophie's shenanigans.

"Now you don't have to return to the Duo."

"I miss them. I'll visit, eventually. After I settle in at this job. I'm sure they'll be excited to hear I got one." He studies me then places a kiss on my forehead. "Enough about me. I missed you so much. Tell me how the hell you landed Canal+."

He pulls me against him and starts, his voice booming out of his chest.

Henri-Laurent and I could be twins-we were mistaken often in youth-but Henri grew up as much as out, like Paul Bunyan, burly and robust, and I, built like a dancer with lithe limbs. Where his eyes are green with specks of gray, mine are gray with specks of green. The color of our hair could blend together at the roots but his lightened to a coppery red from being out in the sun regularly. Our noses and lips matched down to the flare of our nostrils when we're angry and the pout of our pink lips when we're upset. Our personalities and temperaments echo each other; when one's moody, the other's esctatic. We're creative within our mediums; he has an eye for photography and cinematography, which has led him to film and I, an eye for structures: woods, metals, and stones which I chisel and bend to create products that could function within and as an extension of nature.

Sophie announces that dinner's ready and Henri and I ample out of my room. We sit down to a surprising spread by Sophie, Nicoise salads accompanied by a board of charcuterie, cheeses, and breads. She even managed a case of Malbec, Henri's favorite. How she accomplished this in such a short time, Henri and I didn't want to know.

We make plans for Henri to spend the next day with Sophie while I'll be at work. She's overjoyed by the prospect of spending a whole day with him. Henri and I thought it'd be a nice treat for her since essentially, she got me the job. That night, we would go out and truly celebrate my first week of work and then Friday, we would head off ot the coast to spend the weekend camping.

After dinner, with a few emptied bottles of Malbec already littering the table, we open a couple more and reminisce over our shared childhoods in New Orléans. Our laughter and boisterous voices were sure to wake the neighbors but none came knocking at our door to complain.

Somehow, I don't know how in my drunken stupor, the party had moved from the dining room to the living room and the next morning, I awoke on the floor with Sophie nestled in between Henri and me, like all those nights when we were children, and then teens.


End file.
